


Tuesday Night, Glazed Over Eyes.

by RippingOffZeppelin



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, M/M, short one shot based on miss you by Louis, why did zouis have to die rip, zouis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:48:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RippingOffZeppelin/pseuds/RippingOffZeppelin
Summary: Miss You is about Zayn;





	Tuesday Night, Glazed Over Eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> me @ myself: when will you stop writing random tiny drabbles and instead finish your long actual full story fics? 
> 
> me @ myself: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

  
  
Louis refuses to miss Zayn, he doesn't deserve it.

People don't get to just rip the carpet out from under other people and still get missed; still get nostalgic, misty eyed, late night musings or whatever the fuck- they just don't. So Louis doesn't miss him, doesn't really think much about him, it's been so long since he's even seen him in person.

Years, even.

Actually the last time he saw him was the night he left, they'd been drinking, a mystery machine lads night out, club hopping through the city. Zayn had been quiet all day, progressively quieter through the night, Louis just thought he was tired.  


_ "You good?" he'd asked _

_ Zayn nodded. Louis dropped it. _

He was dancing the last time they spoke. Zayn had come over from his place in the blue corner booth of club number 4, weaving through people to grab Louis' shoulder, he'd paused for a moment, looking at Louis before speaking.

_ "Lou- I'm leaving!" he yelled over the music, Louis nodded, raised his drink in cheers, still dancing _

_ "Alright catch ya mate!" _

And really what the fuck was he supposed to think? That that actually meant _'Louis I’m leaving, and I don't just mean I’m leaving the club- I mean I'm leaving the club and then the hotel and then the country and then the band, alright have a nice life!'._

God.

What a fucking goodbye.

In his worst moments when he's alone in too big hotel rooms, a too big apartment, Louis will think back to it and imagine himself leaving with Zayn, cashing in an early night and sharing a ride back to the hotel, where maybe Zayn tells him what he should have and Louis gets a chance to talk him out of it. Where he convinces him to stay, where he says the right thing to make him reconsider, where he says  _something_. Something that at least warrants him a face to face explanation rather than a second hand account of feelings no one knew about. Something rather than _'catch ya mate!'._

What a fucking goodbye.

And yeah maybe he'll hear Zayn's voice on the radio sometimes, see his face on the front of a magazine and his heart will stutter a beat that feels a little something like regret but he doesn't miss him. He just- it's been a while that's all, and they never used to go a day without speaking so it's been, different- not having that.

-

He doesn't realise it's the same club at first, mostly because he's been dragged over half of the city and they stumbled in through the back, more than 3 sheets at this point but he recognises it when they hit the dance floor. His eyes immediately find the corner booth with the blue velvet seats, and it's not like he expects to see him, he knows he's not gonna be there, so he doesn't really know what to do with the disappointment that forms itself in his chest.

Fuck. He needs another bloody drink. Something to  blur the memories in his head enough to ignore them. 

-

He's not expecting it when it happens, it's like he gets shocked into sober, and there's someone out there having a proper laugh at him, Louis thinks, as Zayn's voice fades in, bouncing through the speakers, heavy and unavoidable as the bass pounds incessantly through the club. 

Suddenly it's like floodgates have opened, like he can't not think about it, memories rushing back to the forefront of his mind as Louis stumbles his way around with Zayn's voice still ringing out, clinging to his skin, changing from one of his songs to the next. It's like he's seeing Zayn everywhere, the bartender with the same smile, a girl with a tiger tattoo and sweeping eyelashes. Shit.

He has no idea where his mates are, he lost them somewhere after the last two shots and all he wants now is to get the fuck out of this stupid club and away from it's stupid memories. So he makes a break for it, heading back outside, the cool air making the pounding in his head lessen. He leans back against the brick wall, hands clutching his phone and a pack of cigarettes, he turns them both over before shoving the pack back into his jacket pocket, unlocking his phone. He still has Zayn's number, he went to delete it back after they first found out he wasn't coming back, he ended up chucking his phone at the wall instead. It broke, but the number was still there.   

He opens up the contact just to look at it, he hasn't touched it, no change to the picture, the name, no childish retaliation like he'd usually expect from himself, just the same- 'Zayynerrr' with a trail of emojis following and Zayn face pouting up in a ridiculous imitation of a model pose, red eyes half hidden by Louis' sunnies; he never did give those back.

Fuck this, fuck him. Louis' meant to be having fun, he's meant to be over this, it's been so long now, it shouldn't be allowed to hurt anymore, it's not fucking fair that it still stings. 

He doesn't realise he's hit the call button till it's too late to pretend he didn't, the phone dialling in his slack hand. He stares at it in horror before slowly raising it to his ear, this isn't good, can't be, he's going to yell or worse, cry, or something ridiculous and- 

_..Sorry it looks like that number is no longer in service, for more information.. _

-Fuck.

Well that's.. that then. 

Christ maybe he should have deleted it, if the dick was just going to change his bloody number anyway, it would have been nice to get to pretend that he cut Zayn off, not the other way round. It feels a little like being left all over again.

He's hands clench around the phone, the distant pounding of the bass still audible from out here, the alcohol still warming his blood. He stares at the now useless contact, at the pixel copy of Zayn's face, a poor reflection of the real thing, his hands shaking.

Shit. 

Maybe he does miss him.

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> Pop punk Louis rose, and it was beautiful.
> 
>  
> 
> my tumblr: wesandrstoned.tumblr.com


End file.
